


Regarding Keith's Galran Puberty

by BleedingTypewriter



Series: Regarding Twitter (NSFW) [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alien Biology, Exploring the side effect of Keith's galra side, M/M, Making Out, Mentions of sexual maturation/effects during puberty, Multiple Orgasms, Premature Ejaculation, Sensory Sensitivity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:35:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24172930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BleedingTypewriter/pseuds/BleedingTypewriter
Summary: Keith doesn't know what's causing it for the first few years. He just knows that he has little to no refractory period and tends to cream his pants when he smells his crush's deodorant. Awesome.Part of a series of edited/updated threads from Twitter.
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Series: Regarding Twitter (NSFW) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1744681
Comments: 9
Kudos: 330





	Regarding Keith's Galran Puberty

**Author's Note:**

> "Regarding Twitter" is a series of my favourite threads updated, lightly edited, and tagged. All original versions are available on my account [here.](https://twitter.com/BleedingType/status/1199399029395709952) Length and tone varies as Twitter is where I tend to play and explore.

It becomes pretty obvious pretty fast that something isn’t right when Keith runs face-first into puberty.

Fragmented as his experience with it has been, the public school sex ed system teaches him enough to expect certain things: the mood swings, the extra body hair, the sudden and seemingly constant expansion of certain body parts (that had seemed so boring and uninteresting before, but _now_ …). Guy talk takes care of a few other things. Insular as he is, gym class locker rooms and overheard conversations between older foster brothers are unavoidable. He figures out the vulgar bits through hushed whispers and gloating boys in towels and follow-up Google searches he prays his foster parents don’t have the technical wherewithal to figure out.

Some things, though, never come up in class or between boys. Some things are too mortifying to type into a search engine; too obviously _weird_ to bring up with anyone.

The cutest guy in his gym class now makes him sweat in odd places; makes him hard in others. These things are humiliating, but expected.

But nothing prepares Keith for the way he can _smell_ the cutest guy in his gym class. He can smell every part of him from clear across the locker room. He can smell his conditioner (fake apricots and chemical softener) and his deodorant (a cheap imitation of male musk and too much licorice) and _him_ (real apricots and real male musk).

He can hear the gross, intimate noise of him clearing his throat as if it were right in his ear (as if it were a _growl_ right in his ear).

He can barely stand to look at him; all he sees are a series of close-ups that have _no right_ getting him as excited as they do (goosebumps along the guy’s collarbone where he missed a few drops of water after his shower; hair sticking to the back of his neck, one delicate strand curled around his ear).

The worst part, though, is the way he barely makes it to a bathroom stall in time; doesn’t even get a hand on himself, just loses it in his shower-damp underwear, thrusting against nothing to the thought of his crush’s fucking _scent_.

Actually, scratch that. The worst part is two minutes later, when he’s furiously scrubbing at his boxer briefs with a wad of toilet paper, wondering if the little paper bits are better than the obvious come stain. He’s _outraged_ at himself; _affronted_ that his body—his _life_ —has found yet _another_ way to remind him that he’s innately a _freak_. He’s so pissed that he doesn’t really notice that he’s hard again until he’s already close. The lingering scent of his own release is mixing with the memory of the scent that _just_ got him off, and the anger is sliding off the edges of it, and _fuck_ , if he breathes _really_ deep he swears he can still make out the smell of that awful deodorant and the wonderful boy underneath and–

Keith comes for the second time in as many minutes. He spills pathetically onto the floor; hears the sound of his own release land with a loud, nasty _plop_ ; has to stuff his fist into his mouth to keep quiet when someone kicks at the door of the stall he’s in and warns him that he’s going to be late if he doesn’t hurry up ( _fuck_ , just a male voice that close, so _authoritative_ …).

He doesn’t hurry up. He skips his next class altogether; takes the long way home and arrives long after his foster siblings, jacket tied around his waist to disguise the ruined crotch of his pants.

So.

It’s obvious there’s something _off_ about him.

But really, he’s not sure what he’s supposed to do about it.

There are a lot of things _off_ about Keith. He’s already a history-less, desert-born, orphaned disciplinary case. It feels oddly easy to accept being a biological freak of nature when he’s already an _all-over_ freak of nature, resigned to a life of isolated offness. 

And then he goes to space, and he finds a Galran explanation for all his offness, and _Lance_ happens, and...

Look, Keith’s just never expected to have to explain to anyone about his quirks.

But he and Lance are (he’ll realize much later) painfully unversed in the art of communication. And they’re caught in a war, and grossly, disgustingly attracted to each other, and isolated, and terrified, and _teenaged_ , so of course things get physical fast.

Of course Keith finds himself half in Lance’s lap, in the lounge where anyone could see them. His hip is starting to cramp; he’s scared to readjust, to climb into Lance’s lap properly, to do anything that’ll stop the good things that are happening in all the places they’re attached. Lance isn’t particularly experienced at this, Keith knows—not beyond a couple Garrison parties where his finger guns had actually worked and left him dazed and sore and a little lonely the morning after. But Keith has _never_ trusted himself to get this close without embarrassing himself.

Speaking of which.

He’s only able to recognize his body’s reactions as Galran in a faraway, fuzzy sort of way. He goes from inexpert clinging to a sort of panicked desperation every time Lance pulls back to breathe. He becomes aware of Lance’s smell: an overpowering mixture of skincare products with a fake floral edge and a sweet-sour musk in his sweat that hints at reserved strength and masculinity and a long fuse with a huge fucking bang at the end. He can feel the pinpricks of sweat soaking through the collar of Lance’s t-shirt where Keith’s fingers are gripping, going stiff.

 _Fuck_ , he can hear the squeaky, strained cotton sound of Lance’s cock pressing against his jeans like he’s got his ear pressed against it; like he’s close enough to lean in and _looksmelltaste_ everything that’s already bombarding him from all sides.

Keith comes almost as an afterthought, too focused on all the exquisite _Lance_ of it all. He hardly realizes it _is_ an orgasm, used to this kind of wetness spreading between his legs when he gets ramped up; used to the arousal starting up again even as he’s still coming, like a song in canon with an overpowering crescendo.

Lance stops kissing him as he stiffens and rocks and moans. “Keith?” he asks, uncertain. And oh, the sound of his voice, all turned on and worried, worried about Keith, wanting to make sure he’s okay, wanting to _protect_ him...

“Keep...keep talking...”

God, Keith can see the sweat gather in the tiny lines on Lance’s forehead as it wrinkles with his confusion. He can _smell_ the sweat there. He feels like he could drink it; could drown himself in the acrid humanness of it.

“Keith, are you okay?”

Shit, so concerned, so caring, such a good, strong mate (distantly: _mate?_ ), and still that gravel in the contours of his voice, still that scent of adrenaline pooling in the backs of his knees and the ditches of his elbows that can only mean danger or arousal or both.

“Yeah, yeah, I–“ Keith cuts himself off with another orgasm, quick even for him. He’s never been this close to anyone before, never been allowed to indulge in the sensory cacophony that gets him off. He’s not even sure he’s allowed _now_ , but he can’t _stop_ , not with everything about Lance so _close_...

He’s still hard. Come is soaking through his jeans in an oblong, obvious stain.

“Holy shit, did you just...?”

Fuck, his voice is the furthest thing from helping right now. Keith nods and licks at his neck. It can’t feel particularly good, little more than inexperienced swipes with the flat of his tongue, but the taste of Lance’s skin, even the bitterness of his lotion, has him rocking his hips; has him _close_ again, holy _shit_...

“But didn’t you just, like, a minute ago...?”

Keith is humiliated. He’s _more_ than humiliated, but it just mixes in with everything else; into the warm, nauseous intoxication of it all. He can’t stop. “Galra thing, I think,” he mumbles. He _can’t stop._ “I’ve always...but not like...god, Lance, I’m _sorry..._ ”

Lance pushes him back to look at him properly, and Keith keens (his fingers are so deceptively _strong_ ). He stares at the dark patch on Keith’s jeans, only partially visible with the way he’s still oddly contorted against Lance’s side.

“You...oh my god, you really _did_ –” 

And then there are a whole host of new sensations for Keith to explore. The poofy, submissive sound of his back hitting the couch. The hot, thick richness of Lance’s spit as he kisses him almost too deep. The intricate vibrations of their clothes rubbing together, the inside of Lance’s thigh grazing the outside of Keith’s as he brackets him between his limbs.

“You’re not freaked...oh my god, ohmygod, ohmygodohmy...”

Lance’s tongue digs into the hollow behind his ear, too enthusiastic but desperately determined, and it makes him spill again into the horrendous mess in his pants. “Freaked out?” Lance laughs. “Not quite. How many times can you…?”

“I don’t...I don’t know…”

“Wanna find out?”

Keith groans; is _already_ getting there again. “ _Yeah_ …”

(They end up losing count, but that’s okay.)

**Author's Note:**

> This was from before my threads got to be on the longer side (snrk, that's putting it mildly), so it was left mostly as a premise. Potentially a part 2 to come some day? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
